Same Time Next Year
by lucindadixon
Summary: "No one did complicated better than him and Margaret. Though he had to admit, right about now he was having trouble remembering why exactly that was a bad thing." Post-war HM
1. 1954

**Same Time Next Year**

**~.~**

**1954**

It started out innocently enough.

He was speaking at a medical conference in Boston, eight months after his return to the States. His topic: the fine art of improv surgery and how the lessons learned in a MASH unit could be applied in civilian operating rooms. Not his usual sort of thing, country doc that he was trying to be, but Sidney Freedman had very nearly insisted upon it, and he'd learned long ago that when Sidney thought he should do something, it was probably in his best interest to shut up and do it.

He didn't know she was going to be there, but there she most certainly was, dressed in a low-cut black cocktail dress and high heels that had her legs going on for miles. Suddenly as dry as a desert, he knocked back most of his drink without taking his eyes off her. From the astonished look on her face when she eventually spotted him from across the room, their inadvertent reunion was just as much a surprise to her as it was to him. From the smug look on Sidney's, as he wandered off claiming a sudden desire to wash his hair, this was the plan all along.

Her walk across the reception room was pure vintage 'Major Margaret Houlihan, Head Nurse', and every male eye in the room was trained on her as she approached him. He rose from his chair when she was just feet away, fighting the grin that threatened to break his face in half with its enthusiasm. His arms itched to pull her to him and so he thrust his hands into his pockets. Better to look impertinent than overeager.

When she walked right by him while looking resolutely in the other direction, his jaw dropped to the floor. She didn't slow down, didn't even acknowledge his existence, just continued on her way until she disappeared out the door of the reception room and into the hotel lobby beyond.

After recovering from his initial shock, he bolted from the room, dodging tables and inebriated doctors to find her standing by the elevators, foot tapping, eyes trained on the floor indicator above the firmly shut doors.

"Margaret, what the hell's the matter with you?" he asked as he came to stand beside her. The sadness and bewilderment in his tone softened what could have been angry words.

"I'm sorry, Doctor. I didn't see you there." Her voice was monotone, but her frantically darting eyes and fidgeting extremities belied the composure she was trying to project.

"Didn't see me? Our eyes met across a crowded cliché! Oh, you saw me, Margaret."

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open, but he grabbed her arm before she could enter. "Margaret, please. Tell me what's wrong."

At the moment of contact, her fragile façade of self-control fell completely away. Shaking off his grasp, she turned to face him, her normally husky voice shrill and shrieky in the way it always got when powerful emotion took control of her. "Why am I here, Pierce? Why did you and Sidney have to go and mess everything up? The way we ended things in Korea, that kiss… It was perfect. We won't work in the real world. You said it yourself! Why'd you have to go and do this, Hawk? Why?"

He winced at the raw pain in her voice, but held his ground. "Margaret, we've both been had. I didn't know you were going to be here either, I swear! I don't know what the hell Sidney thought he was doing because I agree with you, damn it! It was the perfect goodbye, the perfect ending to our almost relationship. Until five minutes ago, I fully expected to never see you again."

And he really hadn't. It wasn't as though he hadn't thought about looking her up. All the boy-girl stuff aside, they'd been friends. The best kind of friends and he'd missed her like hell, enough that he'd had her number written down on a pad beside his phone for the last six months. So why hadn't he called? Well, because that brought all the boy-girl stuff back into the equation and then things got complicated. And no one did complicated better than him and Margaret. Though he had to admit, right about now he was having trouble remembering why exactly that was a bad thing.

"But, you know what?" he continued. "We're here now. So…can I buy you a drink? This is a classy joint; I understand the martinis contain actual vermouth. Whaddya say?" He gestured toward the room holding the reception.

She shook her head violently back and forth, tears shining in her eyes, but not yet falling. "I can't, I just can't," she whispered.

Reaching out, he held her head steady between his two hands. "Margaret, please. I've missed you. And anyway, don't you think two heads are better than one? As far as coming up with a way to reupholster Sidney's couch, I mean."

He could see the internal struggle playing out in her beautiful blue eyes. Trying to help her along, he added, "Look, Margaret. I don't know what kind of arrangement you've got with Sidney that enabled him to set this up, but I _do_ know what kind I've got. Have you ever known him to do anything that might harm a patient?"

She blinked a couple of times, considering. Bringing her hands up to clasp his and pulling them down from her head, she surrendered, a smile spreading across her face. "No, I guess not. But that doesn't mean we let him get away with this little subterfuge."

"Of course not! He'll rue the day he decided to reunite Margaret the Menace and Hawkeye the Horrid. I almost feel sorry for him." With a flourish, he indicated the way back to the reception. "After you, my darling co-conspirator."

She walked ahead of him for a few steps before stopping and looking back at him over her shoulder. "I missed you too, Pierce," she said, shrugging. "A little."

"A little, she says. A little." He shook his head and followed.

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes after sitting down at a table in the reception, they forgot all about taking revenge on their mutual friend and psychiatrist.<p>

An hour after that they were in bed.

* * *

><p>His talk went as well as could be expected, given how little time he'd spent preparing. Add to that, his lack of sleep and general giddiness over the night before, and a heckler in the form of some idiot who'd sat out the war 4-F, and all in all, he doubted he'd be invited back next year. At least he'd managed to open a few people's eyes about what had really gone on in Korea.<p>

Margaret's seminar was going much better, he thought as he listened from his spot at the back of the room. It was only to be expected though, as not only had she actually written her speech down, but she really was born for this type of thing, despite her protests to the contrary. She commanded attention from everyone in the room with her clear, confident voice and succinct gestures. He was reminded of a time in Colonel Potter's office: Margaret pacing the floor, calmly lecturing the four doctors in the room on the progression of hemorrhagic fever. She'd be an incredible teacher.

After catching her eye and giving her an exaggerated wink and thumbs up, he ducked out of the conference leaving her to her to answer questions from the attendees. She'd warned him ahead of time that the type of queries he would come up with would not be welcome and he didn't want to spoil his chances for another night like the previous one. It was best if he removed himself from the temptation.

He considered and rejected waiting for her in the hotel bar; the siren call of the bed in his hotel room was too strong to resist. First, a nap. Then, when Margaret came knocking, they could carry on with making up for lost time without losing any more of it.

* * *

><p>He dreamt of Korea.<p>

_The generator must have gone out again because it was pitch dark in the OR and he couldn't find his way to his patient. The poor kid was crying out in pain, begging for someone to help him. 'I'm coming, I'm trying to find you,' he called, walking with his hands out, trying to feel his way around. Nothing was where he remembered it being. The room was the wrong size; the wrong shape. He kept bumping into things, strange, out of place things: the piano from the Officer's Club, a jeep, his still. Out of the darkness, a hand landed on his shoulder and he whirled around to find Margaret, gowned and masked, holding a lantern. 'This way, Doctor,' she said. 'I'll help you find him.' She held out her gloved hand and he reached for it, knowing everything would be fine now. But then the shelling started and Margaret screamed._

He woke up with a start, disoriented and anxious, knowing he wasn't in the Swamp, but not quite sure where exactly he was. When he opened his eyes, the room was dark. Sitting up, he reached over and turned on a lamp with one hand while checking his watch with the other. It was late. He tried to tell himself it was just the remnants of a bad dream causing the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, but his stomach didn't buy it. Neither did his brain. Something was wrong. Margaret should have woken him up hours ago.

He knew even before he saw the note lying on the floor just inside the door. He knew she was gone.

_Hawkeye,_

_I'm sorry to run out on you like this. I couldn't take the chance that you'd try to convince me to stay. I couldn't take the chance that you wouldn't. When you said so long ago that we were too different to be together, you were right. I know that. But I can't imagine living the rest of my life without ever seeing you again. This conference is held here in this hotel every year. If you want to see me again, be here next year._

_Love,_

_Margaret_


	2. 1955

**A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who commented. Amymimi: That's too funny! No, I had never even heard of that movie before. Now I have to watch it, but not til after I finish this fic so I'm not influenced :)**

* * *

><p><strong>1955<strong>

To go or not to go? It became the subject of a contentious, year-long, internal debate. On the one hand, who was he to turn down a roll in the hay with a beautiful woman? Especially a beautiful woman with whom he could have an intelligent conversation. Especially, especially, a beautiful woman with whom he could have an intelligent conversation that he actually _liked_. It should be the easiest choice he's ever made, on par with deciding to breathe or allow his heart to beat. So why was it that every time he thought he'd made up his mind to go, some little voice in the back of his head pointed out that what Margaret had proposed might not be the mental-healthiest idea ever?

What he should to do was move on. Get on with his life. Not forget her, because he couldn't if he tried, but put her aside. Store her away in his mental filing cabinet under M. M for Margaret, for Major, for Magnificent, for Might have been. That was what he should do. That was what they _both_ should do.

But in the end, of course, he went. How could he not? Mental health be damned. He only hoped he wouldn't be damned right along with it.

* * *

><p>For lack of any better ideas, he decided to follow in last year's footsteps and meet up with her at the reception held the night before the conference began. He put on a suit and tie, made himself beautiful, and took up residence at a table in the corner that offered a clear view of the door. And then he waited. And drank. And waited some more.<p>

Four hours and more scotch than he really wanted to think about later, he was forced to concede she wasn't coming. He felt like a fool, a complete and utter fool. She had probably forgotten all about the conference, all about her note, all about _him_. She'd moved on, just like he should have. But no, here he was: drunk and alone in a hotel a hundred miles from home, looking like a goddamned stood-up jerk. Hauling himself to his feet, he staggered out of the reception, and up to his room.

* * *

><p>The knock, when it came, was tentative and had he been asleep he would never have heard it. As it happened, he was awake, blearily answering the call of nature and trying to decide whether he was sober enough yet to get in his car and drive the hell home. Tripping over his own feet on the way to answer the damned door seemed to settle that question.<p>

"What the hell…" he began, yanking the door open and then stopping in surprise at who he found on the other side. "Margaret. You're here," he said inanely, wondering if maybe he was still asleep. She looked tired. Tired and annoyed and, Jesus Christ... Beautiful. She looked beautiful.

"Brilliant observation, doctor. Can I come in?" she asked, interrupting his daze.

"What? Oh. Yeah, yeah, come in. Come in, come in." He stood aside to allow her to enter.

"My plane was delayed. Mechanical trouble. I just got here," she explained, wandering around his room randomly picking up his discarded clothing, shaking out and folding his pants and shirt. He watched her for awhile, his brain not quite having wrapped itself around this new development. She was here. She came after all. A grin broke out across his face.

"Margaret, cut that out," he said, noting the stiffness in her shoulders and the slight tremor in her hands. "Come here." He opened his arms to her.

She stared for a moment before dropping his shirt to the floor and walking into them. He could feel the tension starting to leave her small frame as he enveloped her into a bear hug. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming," he murmured into her ear as the familiar scent of her perfume played havoc with his self control.

"I almost didn't," she replied. "I was afraid I'd come all this way and you wouldn't be here."

"Wouldn't be here?" he asked, nuzzling her neck. "Of course I'm here."

She pulled back, out of reach of his lips. "There's no 'of course' about it, Pierce. I didn't hear from you; for all I knew, you didn't even see my note, or you did, but you had no desire to ever see me again. And then, when I knew I was going to be late, I thought even if you had come, you'd probably think_ I_ wasn't coming, so you'd leave because I know you have no interest in the actual conference and…"

He wrapped his arms even more tightly around her, hoping to help her rein in her agitation before it got out of hand by reassuring her of the reality of his presence. She didn't need to know how close that last part had come to being true. If he hadn't gotten so plowed waiting for her, he probably would have left and missed her entirely. It was an altogether unpleasant thought and, truth be told, the hug was as much to reassure him as it was her.

She permitted it for longer than he expected. Pushing his luck, he slid his hands lower to cup her luscious derriere and put his lips back to work on her neck. He was rewarded with a shiver and when she spoke, her voice was breathy.

"Hawkeye? I think if this thing is going to work we need to set some ground rules." She tilted her head to the side to allow his wandering lips more access.

She can't be serious. "Ground rules? What, now?" he asked between kisses.

Groaning, she reached around and removed his hands from her rump. "Yes, now."

Not liking the sound of that, he let go of her and took a step backward. "I don't know, Margaret; I don't do too well with rules."

"And I don't do too well without them. Pierce, please."

"Alright, alright," he said, waving his hand in mock surrender. "What did you have in mind?"

She walked across the room and sat on the side of the bed, gesturing him to join her. He did, carefully leaving enough space between them that he wouldn't get yelled at, but not so much that he couldn't smell her perfume.

"Well, first of all… If ever one of us can't make it, we have to find a way to let the other one know."

Fair enough. That was a good rule, actually. "No stand-ups, got it," he said, spider-walking one hand across the bed toward her knee and getting it slapped for his troubles.

She glared at him and continued. "And if ever either of us wants to put an end to this, we just say so. The other one accepts it, no questions, no recriminations."

He could agree with that one too. "Easy out, got it." After all, who was he if not Dr. No Strings?

"And third, this…" she gestured to the empty space between them, "… has nothing to do with real life. And real life has nothing to do with this. Never the twain shall meet."

"'The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated'," he proclaimed loudly, jumping to his feet.

She startled and looked up at him quizzically.

"Mark Twain," he explained. "Just getting it out of my system. 'Buy land, they're not making it anymore', 'Denial ain't just a river in Egypt', 'Sometimes too much to drink is barely enough'."

"Pierce, I'm serious!" she said. Her words were stern, but her eyes were laughing.

"Alright, alright," he said, sitting back down. "No twains. Anything else?"

She shook her head.

"Good. Can we fool around now?"

She answered by climbing into his lap and kissing him hard.

* * *

><p>Perhaps miraculously, they made it through the rest of the weekend without fighting. There were a couple of minor skirmishes to be sure - where to eat breakfast, whether to attend any lectures, that kind of thing - but no casualties and no declarations of war. Or maybe it wasn't a miracle; he thought as he packed up the last of his belongings, maybe coming home had mellowed them both to the point where they weren't so different after all.<p>

Then again, maybe they were just both on their best behavior, afraid to say the wrong thing lest they disrupt this fragile peace they've found. It was true on his part, at least. Margaret was one of the few people in his life who really understood what he had endured over there. He had needed this time with her, for more reasons than one.

"I'm ready to go," Margaret said, interrupting his thoughts from the open doorway of his hotel room. Ever concerned about appearances, she'd slept in her own room both nights, leaving him after he fell asleep. He hated that she felt the need to do that, but understood it just the same. It wasn't his back the housekeeping staff or other conference-goers would be talking behind.

"Me too," he said, closing and fastening his suitcase. "Let's hit the road, schweetheart," he said in his best Bogart voice. Joining her in the doorway, he picked up the suitcase she had set on the floor and started down the hall.

"Whoa, wait a minute, buster. What do you think you're doing?"

He turned around to find her still standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. "I'm taking you to the airport?"

"Oh, no you're not. I'm taking a taxi." As she spoke, she marched up the hall to where he stood and tried to pull her suitcase out of his hand.

"What? Why?" he asked, holding tightly to the suitcase handle. "I drove here, Margaret. My car is in the parking lot. Why would you take a cab when I can just drive you?"

"Would you keep it down," she hissed, letting go of the suitcase and grabbing him by the arm, hauling him back into the room and closing the door. "I can get home on my own Pierce; I don't need your help. And what's more, I don't want it. Once we're outside this hotel, we're no longer anything to each other. Rule number three, remember. My God, Pierce, this is Boston. What if we ran into Charles Winchester?"

"What if we did? We're still friends aren't we? Two friends can't meet at a conference? One friend can't offer another friend a drive to the airport?"

"No! You know he'd never believe that!" She was fast approaching hysteria while he was fast approaching complete and utter confusion. Was he so bad she couldn't even stand to be seen in a public place with him?

He set the suitcases down and approached her, trying to put his arms around her. "Come on baby, Winchester might tease us a bit if he saw us, but he wouldn't tell anyone else. He's too self-absorbed to gossip."

She backed out of his attempted embrace, giving his chest a two handed shove. "Baby! Don't you patronize me, Pierce!"

"Calm down, woman!" he said, exasperated. "For crying out loud, you're worse than an army shower, the way you run hot and cold. One minute you're all over me, the next you want nothing to do with me. I don't know what kind of relationship you have with Sidney Freedman, but I hope to hell it's a professional one. I really think you may be schizophrenic!"

"How dare you!" she cried. "Just because I don't find your misogyny entertaining doesn't mean I'm crazy. You're the crazy one!"

Misogyny? She'd completely lost her grip on reality and all over a simple ride to the airport? He felt like he was back in Korea, talking to Major Hot Lips, and not to his friend Margaret. "You know, it took me the better part of three years to learn when to push and when to pull with you. I really thought I had it figured out."

"Yeah well, you don't. Just let me go, Pierce." All of a sudden she sounded very tired.

"Fine," he said softly. What else was there to say?

"Fine," she agreed, hefting her suitcase and walking out the door.

She was halfway down the hall by the time he walked across the room to the doorway. "So, Margaret," he called after her, "same time next year?"

She stopped and whirled around. For a moment he thought she was going to tell him where to go and exactly how to get there. Instead, she dropped her luggage and stormed back over to him. Yanking his head down, she kissed him, hard and hot.

"Same time next year, Pierce," she agreed when she was finished. Turning away, she retrieved her suitcase and disappeared down the hall.

All he could do was shake his head.

Yeah. Mental health be damned.


	3. 1956 to 1959

**1956**

The first thing she'd done when they met that year was reiterate her rules. He'd been torn, he had to admit, between being happy to spend time with a woman who wasn't going to pressure him for more than he could give, and regret over his hasty words years before that had led her to the conclusion that this, whatever this was, was all they could ever be. He wasn't so sure he believed that anymore, but was a complete loss as to what he could do about it. That was, if he wanted to do anything about it at all, which was yet another question to which he had no answer.

The next morning they sat on the bed in his room, (she had again insisted on having one of her own, though thus far she had spent less than twenty minutes in it) drinking coffee and sharing the newspaper that came included with the room service breakfast tray.

She was reading the international news, an article about an uprising in the Soviet Union that he had skimmed but tried not to think about too much. Her lips moved slightly as she read, eyes wide and horrified, but not surprised by the atrocities one man could commit against another. Neither of them would ever be surprised by that again.

His own section of the newspaper made for much lighter reading and his next words were inspired by something he saw on the page before him.

"So…are movies contraindicated by Rule Number 3?" he asked cautiously, not wanting to cause an argument when they'd been having such a nice morning, but knowing she'd be better off for his breaking her concentration.

She looked over at him suspiciously. "A movie? I don't think so, buster. You're just looking for an opportunity to feel me up in public."

"I won't, I won't. I promise I'll behave. Look…" he shoved the movie listings toward her, covering the article she'd been reading. "A Night at the Opera is showing tonight at the theatre across the street."

She laughed, suspicion gone. "Groucho Marx? I think I may have met him in Korea."

"Had the hots for him too, I bet," he replied. Flinging the papers aside, he stretched out on the bed and pulled her down on top of him.

"Did you bring the glasses?" she asked between kisses.

"In my bag."

"Get them. Now."

* * *

><p><strong>1957<strong>

"Remember the red party?" she asked, taking a sip of her scotch. She drank it with water now, he noted, and seemingly far less of it than she used to. He could relate. His liver liked him a lot better these days as well.

Chuckling around a bite of linguine, he nodded. "Yeah," he replied after swallowing. "The beginning of it anyway. The end is a bit fuzzy. Hell of a party."

It had been, too. He recalled lots of homemade gin, dyed red with food colouring; dancing and music; and the thrill of secret, drunken kisses behind the mess tent. He regretted to this day whatever stupid chivalrous gene had kept him from taking it further. Chivalrous or cowardly, one of the two, or maybe some blasted combination of both.

Forcing the image of Margaret, eyes glazed and hair tousled, from his mind, he continued.

"BJ and his big red moustache, Charles and his big red…head...everyone looked so ridiculous."

Her eyes gleamed as she nodded in remembrance, prompting him to continue where he probably shouldn't. "Everyone but you. You looked stunning."

She blushed as red as her hair had been that night, but smiled her thanks. "You were incredible that day. I wish I could have seen the faces of all those negotiators when you barged in."

"Yeah, well. I don't think I helped matters much, but at least it made me feel a little better."

"It made all of us feel a little bit better." She paused, buttering a bite of bread and then setting it back on her plate before speaking again. "I think that's the day I really fell in love with you," she said, sounding somewhat wistful, eyes looking very far away.

He was surprised, not so much by the sentiment, but that she had voiced it. "Margaret, I…" he began, fumbling for some sort of appropriate response.

"No, Hawkeye. Don't. It's okay. I'm not going all soft on you and I don't expect any flowers or candy. Nothing's changed. I just wanted to say it out loud. Just this once."

He understood. And what's more…

"I love you too, you know."

"Yeah. I know."

She pushed the pasta around on her plate for a moment, before dropping her fork on her plate with a clatter and picking up her drink.

He drained his as well and signaled the waiter for refills.

* * *

><p><strong>1958<strong>

"No! You're wrong! Every year. It's there every year. Third week in March. Every year."

"Hawkeye, I'm telling you. There's no conference this year. I don't know why; there just isn't." He could hear Sidney's tone of voice beginning to change from that of 'friend' to that of 'shrink', but he couldn't seem to stop the rant now that he was on a roll.

"No. You don't understand, Sidney. There has to be a conference. There's a conference every year. I have to go to that conference!" He paced back and forth across his friend's office.

"No, you have to go see Margaret."

He stopped mid-pace. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You don't really think I'm going to believe you're this upset about a convention being cancelled? You think I'm going to believe you _want_ to sit in a bunch of tedious lectures? Not a chance. You've got a standing date with Margaret Houlihan and with no conference; you've just lost your cover. That's why you're upset."

He stared for a moment and then sunk into a convenient chair.

"Alright. If you're so smart, what do I do now? Hmm?"

"As your psychiatrist, I would suggest you think about whether this thing you and Margaret have going on is really all that wise…"

"I know it's not," he interrupted. "And as my friend?"

"I'd say take a chance. Go anyway."

* * *

><p>He strode up to the front desk and dropped his luggage at his feet. "Do you have a Miss Houlihan registered?" he asked the desk clerk, before the man even had a chance to greet him.<p>

"Yeah," came that unforgettable voice from somewhere behind him. "She's in room 214."

He grinned.

* * *

><p><strong>1959<strong>

"I'll get word to her, don't worry about that, but you know, you could just call her yourself."

"Nope, pretty sure that's against the rules," he muttered into the phone. "Just let her know, okay. Tell her I'm sorry and I'll see her next year."

"Sure, Hawkeye. And if you want to talk…"

"I don't. Bye Sidney."

He hung up the phone, sank onto the sofa and stared at his father's empty chair. He'd been gone for nearly a month now and it wasn't getting any easier. As much as he wished he could go and see Margaret, he couldn't inflict himself on her right now. It wouldn't be fair, not now when he was barely holding himself together.

* * *

><p>At nine a.m. the morning he should have left for Boston, he began his weekly trek to the cemetery. With him, he took a notepad and pen. Writing to his father had been a daily habit for the three years he was in Korea and it was one he had picked up again in the weeks since his death. Finding the neat stack of letters in Daniel Pierce's desk drawer had nearly pushed him over the edge, but Sidney's suggestion to try writing had pulled him back again.<p>

Sitting cross-legged on the cold ground in front of the headstone, he put pen to paper.

_Dear Dad,_

_Today I was supposed to go to Boston, like I've done every March since I've been home. For a medical conference, I told you, but that was only partly true. I wonder if you suspected there was more to it that that, since you never once suggested coming with me._

_I've been meeting Margaret Houlihan there. I can just hear you now, saying 'there's a name I haven't heard in quite some time. What are you keeping from me son?' Truth is, I don't know. But I wish you could have met her, Dad. She's...she's really something. You would have liked her. She would have liked you too._

He paused, his lips tugging into a quick, involuntary smile, before continuing to write.

_Probably better than she likes me. _

_I miss you so much Dad…_

* * *

><p>Spring was coming, he could feel it in the air, but it wasn't here yet and he shivered underneath his warm coat as he walked back home. He debated continuing on to the office he had shared with his father, but thoughts of home and hot coffee won out.<p>

Squinting into the sun as he approached his house, he could just make out someone sitting on the doorstep. A patient, probably, or a neighbor with yet another well-meant casserole for poor Dr. Pierce's nutty-as-a-fruitcake son. Whoever it was stood as he walked up the drive, and it was when the sun glinted off her blonde hair that he knew.

She didn't speak, just walked down the drive to meet him, arms opening to him when they were a few feet apart.

"I think this is against the rules," he said as he pulled her to him, voice rough with emotion.

"Damn the rules," she said. "Some things are more important. A wise man taught me that a long time ago, it just took awhile to sink in."


	4. 1959

**A/N I need to stop playing with this and just post. So here's me posting. I hope you enjoy.**

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><p><strong>1959 <strong>

He led her up the drive to his house, one hand on the small of her back, the other carrying her suitcase. The very fact that she had a suitcase, and there was no car in sight, suggested she intended to stay with him, at least for awhile. The thought warmed him and he slid his hand across her back to her side and pulled her a little closer. She stumbled against him and laughed, eyes sparkling in the late morning sun.

"How'd you get here anyway?" he asked, hefting the suitcase up the two stairs onto the front step of the small, white Cape Cod.

"Magic carpet." The words were delivered carelessly as she followed him up the steps, the very unimportance she was trying to bestow on the question making him all the more interested in the real answer.

He set the suitcase down and turned, crossing his arms over his chest, waiting.

"Taxi," she huffed, obviously annoyed at having to explain herself.

He looked at her askance, arms uncrossing and hands diving into his pockets. "In Crabapple Cove? A taxi?"

"In Boston, a taxi. I got to know the driver quite well. I'm expecting a card next Christmas. Can we go inside now? It's freezing out here." She made a show of rubbing her gloved hands up and down her wool covered arms.

He pulled open the metal storm door and passed it off for her to hold as he pushed opened the heavy oak door and lifted her suitcase inside. All the while he was shaking his head in disbelief. "A taxi. You took a _taxi_ from _Boston_?"

"Well, it was the fastest way," she retorted defensively, cheeks flushing.

As soon as she was inside, he set her suitcase down and pulled her to him. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you for coming."

After giving him a tight squeeze, she pulled back and looked up at him. "Hawkeye, I'm so sorry about your dad. You could have called me. I hate that you thought you couldn't. Of all damned times for you to decide to follow stupid rules."

He shrugged. "It's my fault you felt like you needed to make them. Least I could do is abide by them."

He saw she was about to open her mouth to argue and moved quickly to shut her down, placing a hand over her mouth. "We need to talk about that, I know. All…that. But not now, okay. Not now."

She nodded and he removed his hand, pulling her back into a tight embrace.

Not now, but soon. They needed to settle this. But what that meant exactly, he had no idea.

* * *

><p>They weren't really a picture taking family, at least not after his mother passed, but still somehow his father had managed to accumulate a dozen or more albums worth of photographs. He had discovered them in a box on the floor of the old man's closet. Neat and well-cared for, the snapshots were held in place by black tabs on black pages, which were then bound together with string between thick cardboard covers adorned with sketches of flowers or frolicking children. Some of the books were old enough to have been put together by his mother or even his grandmother, but others were much more recent. He wondered now if it was a task his father had taken on after all the women in his life were gone, or if it was one that had always been his.<p>

He was in the living room, flipping through one of the older albums when Margaret came back downstairs after freshening up.

"What have you got there?" she asked.

"Come here," he said, patting the couch beside him. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

She crossed the small room in a handful of steps and took the seat he indicated, moving a throw cushion to the side so she could sit close beside him. She had changed out of the conservative wool suit she wore for travelling and was now dressed more casually in slacks and a light blue sweater. Her hair was loose and curling around her shoulders and she smelled faintly of mint.

He tapped the page in front of him. "My dad, at his high school graduation." The photo depicted a tall, lanky, dark-haired youth with a toothy grin mugging for the camera.

"Handsome devil. Looks kinda like someone I know," she remarked, elbowing him in the side.

He laughed and winked at her. "Yeah. I get that a lot. The handsome part, I mean."

She elbowed him again, harder this time, and he turned to the next page. Now the young man was standing beside a petite blonde girl who was holding onto his arm and looking up at him adoringly.

"My mom," he said. "They were high school sweethearts. No one thought they'd last when he went off to college and she stayed here to look after her widowed father. But they did. My grandfather passed away when Dad was in his senior year, so Mom was free to get married and follow Dad to Boston while he was in med school."

He turned to the next page and Margaret squealed in delight. It was such an un-Margaret-like noise that he instantly lost track of his narrative.

"Is that you?" she asked gleefully, pointing at a chubby, dark haired infant in a white christening gown. "You're so adorable!"

"I really am, aren't I?" he said, bracing himself for another elbow to the ribs, but it didn't materialize. Ignoring his comment, she pulled the photo album from his lap to hers so she could examine his baby pictures more closely.

After she checking out all the photographs on the page, oohing and awing over each one in turn, she turned to the next page and he hastily slammed a hand down over the ubiquitous baby in the bath photo.

"You can't see that one," he explained. "I'm not decent."

"When are you ever?" she said dryly, before zeroing in on a different image on the page.

"It that this house?" she asked, pointing to a photograph of him and his parents, taken when he was about four. The three of them were seated on a blanket in the front yard and a little dog, whose name he had long since forgotten, was licking his face while his parents laughed. No one was even looking at the camera, but it was still one of his favourite pictures.

"Uh-huh. The three of us moved back here when dad finished residency. This is the house my mother grew up in. It sat empty for a few years when she followed dad to Boston, but the community looked after it for her."

"They knew she'd be back. It was her home," Margaret said, an echo of sadness in her voice he didn't quite understand.

He cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah. His too. The plan all along was for him to come back and set up a practice here." He pointed at the next photo on the page, his father standing in front of a small brick building. The brass plaque beside the door couldn't be read in the old photograph, but that was okay, because he knew what it said. "And this is it. Dr. Daniel Pierce, MD. General Practitioner. These days, there's another sign underneath with my name on it. I'll take you there tomorrow, if you're interested."

"I'd like that," she said. "Very much."

He leaned back against the couch then and raised his arm, an unspoken invitation for her to cuddle into him that she promptly accepted. And there they remained for much of the remainder of the day. The photo albums kept them busy for hours with Hawkeye regaling her with stories of his youth, many of them focusing on his relationship with his father. He hadn't realized how much he wanted this opportunity to talk about the old man until it presented itself.

He was very, very glad she came.

* * *

><p>Saturday was spent wandering around Crabapple Cove on foot. Their first stop, as promised, was his father's…his, he mentally corrected himself…his office. Since it was the weekend, his nurse and receptionist were off duty and the door to the building was locked up tight.<p>

Actually, for all he knew, the building could have been locked up tight for a month now, since he hadn't set foot in it since before his father's death. Urgent cases had been referred to colleagues in neighbouring towns. Non-urgent cases were given the choice between seeing his nurse (who was no Margaret Houlihan, but still quite capable for what the position entailed) or waiting for him to be ready to work again. Patients understood. It was one of the benefits of living in a small town. These people had loved his dad too.

"There's not much to see," he said. "Reception area, couple of exam rooms, Dad's office is in here." He paused before adding, "Guess it's mine now." He gestured for her to enter ahead of him. The room was dominated by a large, battered oak desk covered with stacks of files and journals, office supplies, and framed photographs. Behind the desk was a worn black leather chair, spun wrong way around so it faced the large window behind the desk, rather than the desk itself.

"Nice view," Margaret remarked, walking over to the window.

"Yeah," he agreed, coming to stand behind her. "In the summer, whenever he had a spare minute, Dad would go fishing in that stream back there. See it?" He pointed out the window to where a sliver of blue water could be seen behind a cluster of pine trees.

"Mmm." She leaned back against him and his arms came around her waist, his head resting on top of hers. "Did you go with him?"

"Sometimes. Not as often as I should have. You know me – not much of an outdoorsman."

She nodded and her hair tickled his chin.

They stood silently for a few more moments, watch birds fly from tree to tree, calling tauntingly to each other, until he dropped his arms from her waist and grabbed her hand. "I'm hungry. Let's go get some lunch."

* * *

><p>"I envy you this, you know," she said, gesturing at nothing in particular as they walked across the street to the restaurant.<p>

"What?"

"All this. A home. A place you belong. Are you happy here, Hawk? Truly happy? Do you never get bored?"

He shrugged. He could understand why she'd wonder, but life was different here. He no longer felt the need for constant stimulation like he had in Korea. "Something like happy, I guess. And I think I've had enough excitement to last me several lifetimes. There are worse things than bored."

"But you're a surgeon! A brilliant surgeon! Don't you miss it?"

He smiled at her extravagant compliment, but let it pass without comment. "I have privileges at the hospital in Portland. And I do some work at the VA hospital in Augusta from time to time. I'm not completely out of the game, you know," he said, poking her in the arm teasingly.

She looked up at him thoughtfully, but didn't comment.

* * *

><p>Sunday morning, they went to the cemetery.<p>

It was located at the top of a hill, accessed via a twisty, tree-lined gravel path leading from the road. During funerals, the road would be lined with cars on both sides, mourners parking and walking to their loved ones' final resting places, but today the road was deserted. Aside from a few birds and one lone red fox standing in the mist at the edge of the woods, they were they only two living creatures in sight. Behind and to the left of the graves was forested, to the right was meadow. Now, in the middle of March, it was a dreary place with dead grass and patches of icy snow still lying here and there, but he knew in the summer it would be beautiful – more suited to a playground for children than a home for the dead.

He held her hand as they approached the stone and when they came to stop in front of it, he introduced her. "Dad, there is someone I'd like you to meet."

Margaret smiled up at him and the let go of his hand and took a step forward. "Your son is the reason I survived the war relatively intact," she told his father's headstone, as he stood quietly and listened. "He saved my skin, in more ways than one, more times than once. He quite literally shielded me with his own body as artillery was bringing down the walls around us. And his humour and irreverence helped keep me and everyone else in our unit sane. I gave him a hard time at first; we're very different, you see. I thought he was irresponsible, disrespectful. Decadent and weak. But I was wrong. He's none of those things. He's brave, and strong, and compassionate, and I'm proud to have served with him. I'm proud to be his friend."

She cleared her throat then and fell silent.

He walked up beside and slung an arm over her shoulder. "Don't let her fool you, Dad. This one doesn't need shielding from anything, and she puts me to shame in the courage department. Any tight spots we found ourselves in? I was ordered there, or drew the short straw, or whatever. She volunteered. Insisted even. And I've never met a better nurse. She could out-doctor a lot of doctors I know. She's right about us not always getting along, but the more I get to know her, the more I realize we aren't so different after all. Not in the ways that matter."

As they walked back down the path to the road, he wondered if she understood what he was trying to say.

* * *

><p>"I have to go back tomorrow," she announced over Sunday dinner.<p>

He had eschewed reheating one of the dozens of frozen casseroles inhabiting his icebox and instead introduced her to one of his favourite meals - New England boiled dinner. She ate heartily, complimenting him on his culinary skills and he gave credit where it was due. His father had taught him to cook when he was still a boy, a matter of necessity given the many days and nights he'd had to spend alone while his father was working. Margaret had nodded her understanding. She'd learned young how fend for herself as well. Neither her military father, nor her alcoholic mother, had demonstrated much interest in the minutia of parenting.

"Yeah, I figured," he replied. She usually took a long weekend for their "conferences", but he knew she would be expected back at work Tuesday morning. He shoved another bite of corned beef into his mouth and chewed mechanically. The meat had lost all its flavour.

"I don't want to, you know," she said. "But I have to. I have responsibilities. My position at the hospital, my nurses…"

"I know," he broke in, giving her a wan smile. "I understand. It's okay."

It wasn't, not really, but he knew there would be no convincing her to stay.

And with that, they were back where they started.

Rule number three may have been shattered beyond repair, but that didn't make their lives any less separate.


	5. 1959 to 1960

**1959**

He informed her in no uncertain terms, that he _would_ be driving her to Boston to meet her flight.

It should have been a given; instead it seemed like a minor victory when she didn't argue the point. He'd long since learned to take his successes with her where he could find them.

They prepared to leave Crabapple Cove behind soon after sunrise following a sleepless night that had lasted not nearly long enough. Their lovemaking right before rising had been bittersweet - slow and tender and he worried that it felt a little too much like goodbye.

It was a good day for driving, not so sunny that they would be blinded, but the clouds filtering the sun were high and white. It was warmer too; warm enough that they could drive with the windows down and enjoy the fresh spring air. He closed her car door carefully, making sure her feet were inside – she hadn't managed to kill _all_ his gentlemanly tendencies during the years she outranked him in Korea – and then walked around to the driver's side.

After climbing in, he closed his own door and put his hands on the steering wheel.

And he sat there.

"You know, we'll get there faster if you start the car," Margaret suggested gently.

"I know," he said. "That's why I'm not starting it."

She sighed. "We need to talk. I know we do. But can we talk and drive at the same time? Because I really can't miss my flight."

He thought for a moment. Any attempt to keep her here against her will would backfire loudly and spectacularly. "Yeah. We can do that." What choice did he have?

When he turned the key, his father's old Ford roared to life.

"You know," he remarked as he backed down the drive, "this is the first time we've driven together that no one is likely to toss artillery at us."

"And this is the first time that our car has a roof. Let's just hope all our tires stay intact. I'm not dressed to change one."

"Hardy har har," he replied, allowing her the good natured jibe.

They stayed silent for long minutes, only commenting on meaningless things – traffic and scenery and whether to stop for lunch. It was as if acknowledging the need for conversation had lessened its immediacy. As much as possible he stuck to back roads, making the drive a scenic one through coniferous forests and grassy meadows just starting to come back to life after a long winter spent covered in snow and ice. Margaret, ever the city girl, thrilled at each glimpse of wildlife along the sides of the narrow country roads. Each time she spotted a deer grazing or a fox darting in and out of the trees he slowed to allow her a better look.

And if the delay caused by the winding roads and the sightseeing made them late and she missed her flight, well, that was a price he was all too willing to pay.

He had hoped she would begin the conversation they'd been putting off all weekend. All weekend and, if he was truthful, for many years before that. But she did not.

"I was wrong, you know," he said when he could bear the wait no longer.

"Hmm," she said, not looking at him, her attention fully on the scenery outside the car.

"In Korea. I was wrong."

That captured her attention. "Wow, did you just admit to not being infallible?" she said teasingly. "I never thought I'd hear that. When, specifically, were you wrong, Doctor?"

He knew she was just trying to lighten the mood because, arrogant though he may be, admitting when he was wrong had only rarely been one of his problems. He ignored her comment and continued. "I said we were too different, that nothing could ever come of whatever feelings we had for each other. And maybe that was true enough at the time, but what I didn't take into consideration was that the stress of environment we were in. It only served to magnify the worst qualities in both of us and that was where those differences lay. But here, now, in normal life, I don't think we have that same problem. I've mellowed, Margaret. You have too. We have a chance, now. We have a chance. Don't throw it away because I spoke too quickly, too thoughtlessly, too many years ago."

He chanced a glance at her and his heart broke when he saw a tear glistening its way down her cheek. "Margaret?"

She drew in a jagged breath and irritably wiped at her eyes. Looking straight ahead, she spoke. "You hurt me back then, Hawkeye. I know you didn't mean to, and I know I went overboard after that first night together, and I know it was god-awful timing, the war, I was still married, and I know you were right, but still… From then on I felt like I had to protect myself around you. But I'm not very good at it, as you can see. I keep slipping and letting you further in: the night of the red party, the day we left Korea, when I saw you at the conference that first year. When I heard your father had died and I got into that taxi in Boston…"

"And now too?" he asked, torn between hopefulness and regret.

"And now too," she agreed without elaboration and the interior of the car fell again into silence.

More miles passed without comment and he wondered if he had said enough, done enough. The longer they drove without her speaking, the more nervous he became. Why wasn't she saying anything? Finally it dawned on him. Idiot! He's an imbecile. How could she answer a question he hadn't asked? How could she accept an invitation he hadn't extended?

He flicked on his turn signal, applied the brake and eased the car over to the side of the road. Margaret watched him curiously. "Just so we're clear," he said when they were fully stopped, "something can come of this." He took her hand in his. "I want you to come back with me, live in Crabapple Cove. By yourself, at first, if you want, or with me, but either way – I love you. Something can come of this. Something _has_ come of this."

He watched her closely for a reaction and could tell she was fighting tears. With Margaret that could be good or bad, but either way he knew she would prefer him not to acknowledge it and give her the space to pull herself together. Giving her hand a squeeze, he let go and pulled the car back onto the road.

A mile or so passed before she spoke.

"If I lived in Crabapple Cove, I'd have a dog. I always wanted a dog," she said. "A little terrier who would stand on his hind legs and dance for a treat. And maybe a cat, too. And neighbours who stop by for coffee, or to borrow sugar, and bring casseroles during hard times. Friends. A home." She took a deep breath and when she continued, her voice was thick with emotion. "And you. I want you." She paused and looked across the car at him. "The army still owns me for another eight months."

"I can wait," he said, grinning. "I can wait."

* * *

><p>1960<p>

He dreamt, as he often did, of Korea.

_The generator must have gone out again because it was pitch dark in the OR and he couldn't find his way to his patient. The poor kid was crying out in pain, begging for someone to help him. 'I'm coming, I'm trying to find you,' he called, walking with his hands out, trying to feel his way around. Nothing was where he remembered it being. The room was the wrong size; the wrong shape. He kept bumping into things, strange, out of place things: the piano from the Officer's Club, a jeep, his still. Out of the darkness, a hand landed on his shoulder and he whirled around to find Margaret, gowned and masked, holding a lantern. 'This way, Doctor,' she said. 'I'll help you find him.' She held out her gloved hand and he reached for it, knowing everything would be fine now. As their hands touched, it was as if the sun had risen and he discovered that they weren't in the OR at all. They were home, in their kitchen in Crabapple Cove. Margaret's mask and gown were gone, replaced with an ordinary civilian dress. Her blonde hair shone and she smiled at him. "Can you see now? When we're together, it's lighter."_

He awoke to the sun warming his face, his wife curled up at his side.

**The End**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thanks everyone for your kind words. I hope you enjoyed the story. Perhaps we can do it again someday.**


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